Although I still have a massive headache, I’m feeling better about life in general. I was hit by a line this morning which has since produced rambling, albeit short, paragraphs of C.J.’s thoughts. Since I have not posted anything new from my drabble series, I wanted to share these as a peace offering. They do not fit anywhere or together, for the most part, so I wasn’t sure what else to do with them.

Welcome back, janevok!



Returning from an event which C.J. is sure had a name, she marvels at how easily she can be two people. One is righteous, fights for the liberty she knows she deserves, for the respect everyone knows she’s earned. The other is sinful, knows she would lose her loyalty to this man she has sworn to serve if his wife asked her to. How can she be just and deceitful in the same moment?

Normally, unless briefing the President, she would be in a different limo. Tonight, however, it was not the President’s beckoning which placed her in this particular vehicle. A more powerful force drew her there. Even in the warmth of the car, C.J. can feel Abbey’s heat. She tries to find balance in her breathing, tries not to smile too widely when the First Lady chooses to drop her sword of equality and let the men discuss business while the women discuss their dresses, each set sitting side-by-side in the long, black tank rolling down the Washington streets. C.J. tries to stop her fingers from twitching as she pretends she does not want to touch the silk and satin and rosemary which is Abigail Bartlet, tries to tell herself the First Lady would not create a ruse just to have her husband’s press secretary sit next to her – not too close but close enough to tease.

Maybe she is more than goodness and wrath and intelligence C.J. thinks as they are exiting the car and Abbey stills, taking a moment too long to say goodbye. Maybe she does taste like wine, rich and bold, an offering of absolution.

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C.J. once had to straighten the First Lady’s collar back before she was First Lady. It was a warm March afternoon in Idaho, and they had spent the day preparing for a speech involving politics and not just issues. Abbey was in jeans and a t-shirt ten minutes before show time because an intern had spilled water all over the perfectly manicured suit required at such events. In her haste to change once a new suit had been brought to her, the First Lady of New Hampshire had forgotten a detail: a crooked collar.

C.J. still longs to again feel Abbey’s pulse point beating beneath her fingertips.

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C.J. was allowed space where the governor’s wife was concerned. Abbey was the one to allow it, gave her permission to be herself instead of the future press secretary, wasn’t always testing her or trying to shape her. C.J. felt guilty for doing her job while in Abbey’s presence, calling her “Mrs.” instead of “Dr.,” positioning her as scenery instead of a centerpiece. C.J. felt even more shame when her eyes would refuse to concentrate on Jed Bartlet’s features, when they would fail to waver from the darkly dressed trophy by his side.

It was not right she should desire what she had to change.

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Her desires are anomalous, not unimaginable, just peculiar. She thinks she must be reaching for the unusual to justify her inaction. If she can think of a fantasy too deviant, then she knows the objective of her longing would refuse her request and their relationship would not change. So, she becomes a martyr, believing as she does in their work, knowing all the while she could have what she wants. If she gave in, if she allowed the normal to creep into her late night thoughts, the world would crumple.

It is not rejection she fears but acceptance.